The Lamare Tapes:
Senator Kathog
by AJ Balkin
Published by AJ Balkin at Smashwords
Copyright, 2012 AJ Balkin
All characters, events, ideas and places are fictional. Everything in these pages is hypothetical, and based purely in fiction.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Preface
Ms. Lamare is a new antihero in the American literary and political landscape. She takes what she wants, she pulls strings, and she is the Phoenix that rises from the ashes. Stay tuned, there are many more tales of intrigue, sex and murder to come. Ms. Lamare will have a new story every month – and each one is sure to please.
October 17th, 2020 4:33 pm
“Senator Kathog, what can you tell us about your meetings over the past two days with the Resist delegation?”
A spry, fresh faced woman pushed her way to the front of the press circle, vying for a sound bite. She nudged her thick black framed glasses up the bridge of her nose.
“The talks have went surprisingly well. I'd like my constituents and the folks of this nation to know that there will be solutions, and they're coming soon,” the Senator adjusted his tie and continued smiling and nodding, his face illumined by the flashes of the cameras. His pace quickened down the steps of the US Capital Building.
“We've heard from their side and they seem to disagree – they say an unprecedented action is in the works if they don't see results by election day,” the journalist blocked the senator's path, forcing him to respond. She brushed her wispy brunette bangs from her forehead and locked eyes with the smiling senator.
“I made a promise when I was re-elected four years ago to resolve the issues on both sides of the 'Resist equation'. And I promised to end the bloodshed and the riots. Now I have an appointment to get to, if you will,” he attempted to brush the reporter aside with his forearm. She wasn't budging. The flashes of the cameras continued to pop and illumine the senator's profile.
“Senator Kathog, how do you respond to the accusations that you've been consorting with Ms. Lamare?”
The politician stopped in his tracks and stood dead center on the last stair of the Capital Building. His smile dissolved with the question.
“Miss Lamare and I have only met under professional circumstances to further the negotiations between Resist and the representatives in Congress.”
“But there have been recordings of you and Ms. Lamare having –,” the reporter was cut off.
“If only all those recordings were really me. They're all fakes – end of story. Now I have a meeting to get to and problems to tackle that're bigger than your soap opera journalism. The American people are counting on me.”
The reporter backed off and lost herself in the clamor of the dozens of other journalists and photographers wanting to get a word from the senator's lips. He smiled and gave a final wave to the mob of reporters and slipped into a black limousine that was waiting for him with a warm engine. The limousine crept away slowly, conscious of its place in the spotlight.
“Tommy, drop me off at the Hay-Adams. But first let's shake these squawking birds in the suburbs and grab a pastrami sandwich,” the senator relaxed in the back seat of the limousine. Tommy had been the politician's personal escort and bodyguard from day one. He was an aging ex-IRA guerrilla who was offered asylum in the United States after he was released from the British penal system. He was paid out of Senator Kathog's own pocket. Those that supported the actions of the Resist movement saw Tommy as a hero of the incarcerated and immigrant underclass.
“Sounds good, ya cute ol' hoor. To the tripe house, then” the Irishman raised his pale freckled hand and tipped his Done gal tweed cap in assent. He always loved to insult the senator in Gaelic slang.
The limousine circled the highways between DC, Alexandria, Bethesda and surrounding towns for about an hour and finally exited the highway back into Washington. Tommy pulled the vehicle up to a Jewish deli on the city's east side.
“A lashing of mustard on your tripe, boss?”
The senator nodded. Tommy left the engine running and went to get the sandwiches. He returned quickly with a big grin spread across his freckled pale face.
“I tip me hat to ye, boss. The people love me, and more important, they love you more,” Tommy slipped back into the driver's seat and handed the sandwich back to the senator. He wasted no time unwrapping it from the tinfoil and digging in.
“Alright, Tommy. We're cutting it close on time here. To the Hay-Adams.”
A thin sliver of mustard coated pastrami fell from the senator's mouths and onto tie.
October 17th, 2020 9:34 pm
“Get on the floor – your hands and knees on the ground. You filthy dog.”
The room was dark save for the soft glow from the muted TV. It was tuned to the left-leaning 24 hour news network, USLN. A blond woman with shiny red lips reported from a desk with dozens of monitors behind her. The screen split between her and a balding, toad faced man. A caption on the screen read, “Sen. Blake responds to Kathog-gate”.
“In fifteen minutes you're going to wish you were dead. And more than likely, you will be. Start crawling, you impotent worm.”
The body of the man wriggling helplessly on the floor was completely naked and wrapped tightly in saran wrap. His face donned a black ski mask, and he had a pair of lace black panties stuffed in his mouth. The woman towering above him flicked the leather bull whip that she held in her right hand. Her stiletto heels lifted her at least another four inches from the ground. She stomped the spike of her left heel within a finger's width of the man's masked nose.
“You're such a fucking pig.”
She kicked him in his thigh. Her breasts shifted in her see through black teddy. The TV went to the commercial and depicted an ad for the US Army, with smiling troops patrolling familiar cities around the world. The image cut to a laboratory with a group of military scientists in white lab coats examining a beaker and the words, “You Can, With the Army” in large beige letters stamped on the screen.
“Your lying tongue got you here tonight. In twelve minutes, your wife will get the call – and you'll be sinking to the bottom of the Potomac.”
The man let out a desperate muffle.
“I can't fuckin' hear your –,” the woman's fiery words were cut off by the phone ringing. “Speak to me. Yes, exactly. Uh-huh, right. Right, do as you've been ordered. I don't fuckin' care – burn the house to the ground if you need to. Just finish the plan.”
She hung up the phone and slammed her heel into the side of the man's ribcage. He let out another muffled whimper and writhed in painful spasms on the plush blue hotel carpet.
“That was my agent that is parked down the block from your residence. In nine minutes you will be nothing but a memory to your family.”
The woman slid a cigarette from a pack that laid on top of a busted smoke detector. She reached for her small leather purse and removed her lipstick and a lighter. After reapplying a fresh coat of cherry red lipstick, she lit the cigarette and brought it to her pouty lips. A black lace holster on her upper right thigh held a .22 pistol. She sauntered in front of the man so he could see her through the eye slits of the ski mask covering his face. She stroked the barrel of the pistol with her middle finger and slowly drew the gun from its holster. A steady plume of smoke lifted from her lips and she lifted the barrel, taking aim at the man's face. and started laughing uncontrollably from her belly.
“God, I can't do this anymore. Here, let me cut you out of this plastic. I wish Tommy could watch this shit. How is that ugly Irishman, anyhow?”
The woman slid the black ski mask off the man's head and removed the panties stuffed in his mouth, tossing both in a pile in the far corner of the hotel room. She reached in her purse and fumbled around until she found her knife, and she cut the saran wrap down the man's back until he was free, lying naked on the blue carpet.
“Tommy's the usual – fat and stupid. But loyal, always loyal. Ah baby, that was really good – I really liked the bit about my wife,” Senator Kathog rolled over onto his back and hopped up to his feet. He slid up next to the woman on the bed. “Ms. Lamare, we're all the rage. The public can't get enough of this. Everybody wants to know what goes on in this room.”
Lamare got up from the bed and slowly walked to the bathroom without a word. Kathog could hear her undressing and start up the shower. He chuckled to himself and rubbed the side of his ribcage, where a thick and deep red mark lay from Ms. Lamare's heel. He grabbed the remote and unmuted the TV.
“Talking heads and pundits on both sides of the aisle today agree on one thing today. A resilient smile and a confident nod in response to the blinding flashes from guerrilla reporters is the best way Senator Kathog could have handled things today. The Senator from Massachusetts is facing several accusations, the most noteworthy being his supposed romantic connection with Ms. Lamare, the infamous and widely popular prostitute whose work has been far from one-dimensional. In recent years her activism in the grassroots radical Resist movement has pushed her into the nation's attention, being one of the group's main ambassadors to the public. Her work has legitimized the concerns of the Resist movement to much of the underbelly of our contemporary society. Senator Kathog leads a coalition of lawmakers who has been working closely with the Resist delegation over the last two months, trying to reach a compromise before the election and before more political violence erupts across the country.”
“Turn that shit off in there – it's pathetic,” Lamare stepped out from the bathroom wrapped in a soft thick white towel. The towel was embroidered with the initials of the hotel, H.A., in giant gold letters on the towel's corner.
“They love us, Lamare. Come here and let me give you a kiss.”
“You'd have to double my pay before I let you kiss me.”
“Listen Lamare, Resist is gonna get what they want. I'm gonna get what I want. And you're gonna get what you want. All of this is win-win-win, baby, triple sevens all around. How about a little –.”
“Fuck you, Bubby.”
The senator became visibly upset. Bubby was a childhood nickname that Senator William Kathog had given to him by a group of schoolyard bullies. He said it came from his chubby cheeks, which he lost after puberty. Nobody knew this nickname besides Ms. Lamare, who invoked it only during their role-playing sessions.
“You know Lamare, you're just a whore. Your ideas are second rate and those of us in control know it. If Jesus took your tits away, you would just be another frustrated poet whore starving back in Boston.”
“Like I said – fuck you, Bubby.”
The senator got up and started to get dressed. His clothes were folded neatly and piled on the second queen size bed in the spacious hotel suite. He checked his cell phone started sending out a text.
“What's your wife think of this anyway.”
“What does it matter? She admires you on the television. But she's a whore too, just more sophisticated and privileged. You're all the same and I love it,” his lips puckered and smacked, kissing the air in Lamare's direction.
“When do the prisoners get released,” Lamare paused to light another cigarette. “And when will you answer our other demands?”
“All the political prisoners are scheduled to be released before election day. That's already in stone and has the support of the House. I can't guarantee anything on the other demands. Right now the polls are split down the middle. The millions of you that have banded together are a force, but you're up against the other half of us who work and have money and families to support. Sides have already been chosen and I can't go back on my constituents.”
“A twenty seven percent unemployment rate in your state, Kathog, and that's good compared to the rest of the country. One out of eight men are in prison. One in twelve women have turned to sex work. And I'm their fucking hero, don't forget that. They will strike if I give them the word.”
“I'm not paying you to enlighten me, Lamare. We both lose if the cities burn. Let's get through this election and we'll see what happens from there.” The senator reached over and stroked Lamare's red hair. She turned away with a grimace and silently longed to put a slug through the senator's skull. “Same time next week?”
Ms. Lamare kept her face turned from the senator and nodded softly. He left her in the room and went down to the hotel's lounge. A band was playing easy listening jazz to a crowd of politicos, lobbyists, businessmen and the sycophants that hang on their every word. Waiters impeccably groomed and dressed flitted about with silver platters piled with various appetizers, tapas and cocktails. The scene made Kathog want to kvetch. He headed straight to an empty stool at the bar's counter. He needed a drink.
“Donny, how about a double scotch up.”
The bartender knew the voice behind the order and went straight for a special cooler that housed the hotel's special reserve bottles. He withdraw a fine specimen from the back of the case, a bottle with a Japanese label and Yamakazi in black letters, and poured the drink.
“Here you be, Senator.”
“Ah, you always know what's best for a man. Cheers, Donny,” Kathog lifted his glass and sipped the scotch. “Beautiful, beautiful – what is this nectar my tongue tastes?”
“It's a Japanese scotch – won the Internationals three years ago. It's a batch from 2012.”
“A fine year, Donny. It's the year I was first elected to the Senate.”
“I make no mistakes, Senator. Let me know when you're ready for another.”
“Will do.”
The trumpet in the jazz band went off in a solo interpretive rendition of Miles Davis' So What. It grated on the senator's nerves. He recollected that evening so many years ago when his musician father had taken him to see the legend himself at a jazz club in Harlem. It was 1971 and he was only eight years old, but the memory of that smoke filled evening stuck firm in his mind, and inspired his own musical exploration.
“Senator Kothag, I've been expecting you.”
A familiar voice interrupted the senator's reminiscence. He turned around to see the brunette journalist from the Capital building. She smiled and slid out a pen and pad of paper from her coat.
“Would you like a drink?” the senator lifted his hand to signal the bartender's attention.
“If it gets you to talk, senator.”
“What will the lady be having tonight?” the bartender quickly came to the senator's call.
“Two more scotches, clean.”
“If only your story was as clean as your drink, senator, I wouldn't have to chase you around like this.”
“The people know that it's all a gig, darling. I'm no different than the senators of Rome two thousand years ago. And the people I govern haven't changed much either.”
“Whores ruled then as they do now. And the people know that. You just don't want them to know how.”
The bartender came back with their drinks and placed them on coasters in front of the senator and the reporter.
“What's your name, sweetie?”
“Sarah.”
“And who do you work for, Sarah?”
“I'm a political reporter for The Zoo.”
“Hah, you online hacks are all the same. Don't matter the topic, you want to get to the bottom of everything. I'll tell you the truth. Ms. Lamare and I have a professional relationship and we are on the verge of coming to an agreement over what is to be done about the Resist movement and the demands of the socially dispossessed. Do you really want to get between the peace of our country with your little book report of truth?”
“Once the tapes hit the internet, your little plan comes apart at the seams.”
“You sound confident there, Sarah,” the senator took a sip from his whiskey.
“You know the tapes are out there. And you know that once people know what you do behind closed doors, they're gonna run from you as fast as they can.”
“Look at how much we've been talking. You haven't even touched your drink yet. How about you relax and we can go up to my room and maybe do an interview up there.”
Sarah was taken aback with the suggestion. Her eyes were locked onto the senator's face to try to read his intent. She slid her hand toward her drink and caressed the sweating glass with the tip of her pinkie.
“I know who's up there now. And there are a million people that are waiting for this story. You realize that anything I see or hear is gonna be on my blog by tomorrow morning.”
The senator quaffed the rest of his scotch. His eyes were beginning to gloss, and his gaze steadied on the reporter.
“I'll give you all the messy details, Sarah. Come on up to my room, your readers won't be disappointed.”
He loosened his tie and nodded to the bartender. Without any shame he rubbed the young reporter's left shoulder and whispered into her ear. The two stood up from the bar stools and started towards the elevator.
October 19th, 2020 12:31 pm
“Ms. Lamare, is it true that an agreement is on the table to release all political prisoners before election day?”
A dozen cameras flashed on the stage. Ms. Lamare leaned forward, bringing her red painted lips within inches of the microphone.
“Yes, nearly a hundred thousand prisoners are scheduled to be released within the coming month. But what then? We need the rioting to stop, and to do that we need resources.”
A bright eyed student in the front row of the auditorium stood up. Her hair was shaved on one side, with one side hanging in curly blond locks that concealed her left eye.
“I heard Kathog loves your gun. Tell the students how you fuck that scum.”
Ms. Lamare feigned embarrassment, casting a glance over to the other panelists on the stage. She forced a nervous laugh and took a sip of water, then leaned into the microphone to reply.
“You must have tapes, darling? Let's hear 'em. I'm the only woman strong enough to give the senator what he wants, right? I'm his dominatrix, they say. I control the political destiny of Congress through his degenerate desires – please, if you want to be deluded by the shit you read on the internet, keep that crap there. We're here today to get some resolution on real problems facing real people. This isn't a panel for gooey sex gossip.”
Several people in the room clapped and laughed and whistled in favor of Lamare's reply.
“Let the people decide.”
The girl reached into a messenger bag on her chair and pulled out a digital recorder. She lifted it high into the air, turned around to face the rest of the auditorium, and pressed play.
“I told you not to move, you fat fuck. You have no choice in this – turn around. That's right, now spread your lips and stick out your tongue. Lick the barrel of this pistol – it might be the last thing you ever taste.”
She stopped the recorder and turned back to the panel.
“Would you like me to continue, Ms. Lamare? This is only the tip of the ice burg.”
A wave of whispers swept across the audience. There was a hushed expectation and tension in the air – everybody waited for Lamare's response.
“Keep playing what you got there, honey. Let the people decide what is true or not. But let me tell you one thing: I will stop at nothing to end the injustice. Press play.”
The blond punk girl turned back around. She lifted her shaking hand into the air again, and continued the recording.
“Senator Kathog, you rule this country and I fucking love it. But in this room – right here, right now – I am your master. You listen to me. Congress is putty in my hands tonight.”
The crowd erupted in gasps, people started shifting in their seats. An older man with a graying beard at the center of the stage, the moderator of the discussion, turned red and interrupted the recording.
“Enough – stop the recorder. We've heard enough. Allow Ms. Lamare a chance to reply to these accusations.”
Lamare remained calm and steady.
“You think this is anything new? Some counter-revolutionary freak, maybe a federal agent, who knows – somebody with a couple hours on their hands wrote this crap, got a woman to imitate my voice, and put it on the internet. I'm sure everybody in this room has heard this same recording. How are we to know that you're not an agent – you've added nothing to this discussion. And still, the streets are burning, people are starving, and there are political prisoners that are locked down in dungeons where the light don't shine. How about you go home and consider all that before bringing this gossip column drivel to this gathering.”
The blond girl looked back at the crowd. All the eyes and ears in the auditorium were waiting for her response. She threw the recorder back into her bag and started off towards the exit without another word – her face flushed red, her jaw clenched.
“And let me say a little more as this little weasel leaves. America is at the precipice of catastrophe. The privileged students of this university are aware that the time has come to act, no matter what one's morals or personal opinions may be. One hundred thousand political prisoners sit alone, locked away, because they acted. Millions more have been swept up in police raids in our decaying urban neighborhoods – corridors of suffering and lack. Out of the four hundred million people in this country, only fifteen percent have regular, steady full time employment – and most of that is in state and federal law enforcement. Monsanto is blatantly poisoning our bodies and our land, and it is illegal to grow vegetables in your backyard. And still we are obsessed with what happens in virtual worlds that are so abstract, so removed from the daily suffering of this life, that most do nothing. The system is crumbling, and I am here to kick down its last rotting wall.”
October 19th, 10:33 pm
“And it saddens us to report the death of a fellow reporter. Internet journalist Sarah Kraft, aged 27, was found in her sedan that had apparently veered off a county road and into a tree this morning. Officials say that alcohol may have been involved, as open containers of scotch and wine were found at the scene. Authorities report that she was last seen having drinks at the ritzy Hays-Adams lounge in Washington before leaving and getting in her car. A rising star in the realm of investigative reporting, Sarah was most recently known to have been digging up clues in the Kathog-gate scandal, that is currently all the buzz in the Beltway. As somebody who got their start on the internet, my sympathy goes out to her loved ones as they mourn this young woman's tragic death.”
“God, she looks familiar. Where have I seen her before?”
Lamare sat cross legged on the hotel bed.
“Who knows? How many internet reporters are out there trying to figure this all out – there's at least a thousand others in the wood work willing to take her place.”
“I guess you're right. It's just strange, because I feel like I've met her before.”
“Maybe in one of your dreams, baby. Let's mute that TV and get to business. Only a few more weeks until the elections – I need some inspiration to rig this just right for us.”
Ms. Lamare began to unbutton her overcoat. Senator Kathog laid back, muted the TV, and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke defiantly toward her slender frame.
October 31st, 2:38 pm
“Mr. Abbasi, I'm so glad you were able to make it on such short notice. How was the flight from Tehran?”
“Very good Senator Kathog, very good.”
The two men kissed each others' cheeks and shook hands. They sat down at the mahogany table, opposite of each other. Several cigars, two bottles of scotch, a butane torch lighter, and two glasses with an ice bucket were between them at the center of the table.
“Do you treat all of your guests this well, senator?”
“Despite what the people might think, Mr. Abbasi, my office is appropriated a limited budget. I make due with very little. But this is an occasion to celebrate – and you are the guest of honor.”
The ambassador reclined in the brown leather executive's chair. Senator Kathog stood up and started to prepare a cocktail and a cigar for his guest.
“Tehran wants to know what you can offer before any deal is made. My researchers tell me that your party needs to gain fifteen seats in the House of Representatives before you have a safe majority. If you can guarantee that, then the deal is made. You will be a very wealthy man.”
The senator laid down a coaster and gently placed the cocktail in front of the ambassador. Alongside the drink was a cigar and the lighter.
“I've got a little trick up my sleeve, Abbasi, my friend,” the senator poured the scotch into another glass. “Let Tehran know that Congress works for them.”
The senator lifted the corners of his lips in a fox-like smile and sat down at the table. He lifted a cigar and bit off its tip.
“Consider the vermin our problem now, my friend.”
The two men clinked their scotch glasses together, sealing their agreement with booze and laughter.
November 12th, 1:14 am
“As the results from the polls pour in, the country is hopeful this morning. The promises from the Democratic party, specifically addressing the concerns of the powerful grassroots Resist movement, have paid off – in a sweeping and decisive election, they now have an almost untouchable majority in the House and the Senate. President Kroll will keep his post as commander-in-chief, as the Republican contender, Governor Higsbane from South Carolina, failed on his platform that catered to his religious base. Much of the Democratic Party's success has been due to the sophomore Senator from Massachusetts, Senator Kathog. With more on how the Democrat majority in Congress will effect legislation in the next year, we turn to White House correspondent Brett Thayer.”
Senator Kathog turned around and muted the large monitor that was mounted behind him.
“I'm just here to thank everybody who came out and voted yesterday. We couldn't have done it without you – all of you. Each and every person who stood up and spoke in the voting booths has had their voices heard – this is a new day for America, a day that is unlike any other we've seen. The pain that throbs in our nation's streets, spilling into the abandoned countrysides and pulsing through the valleys of our great land will now be relieved. A new economic paradigm is upon us – our party is ready to implement the social programs that will get America back to work, lifting their spirit and igniting their moral courage.”
The small room stood to their feet in ovation. The muted screens behind Senator Kathog depicted various scenes from around the country of people going out to vote, juxtaposed with riots and images of tumult.
“I don't want anybody to forget that my wife Katherine and my daughter Nicole have stood by me every step of the way – through all the rumors, all the attacks. It was a tight race, but we won – and I love you both,” the senator gave his wife a hug and looked down with proud eyes to his daughter. He led them offstage and turned back to see the crowd of his supporters fully moved by his victory speech. No doubt change was in the air.
November 12th, 10:48 pm
“Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you. You're gonna tell me everything – no more bullshit, no more promises.”
“Give me a god damn week. Don't you understand how ungodly slow we work?”
“The prisoners were supposed to be out before election day. Everybody came out to vote still hanging on to that promise. If you go back on that –.”
“Yeah, explosions, right?”
“Worse.”
Lamare kicked the senator in his stomach. A shot of pain filtered up and down his spine. His face spread out in a mischievous grin.
“God I've missed that kick of yours. You'll get everything in due time, baby. Just wait and see.”
“See that's where you've got it wrong, senator. We've waited long enough,” Lamare slid a six inch knife from a holster on her belt. “Let me show you how serious I am.”
Lamare shoved a pair of panties into the senator's mouth. She traced the knife's edge along his jawline to his chin and down the center of his throat. In a flash she lifted the blade into the air and came down hard, slashing the senator's left arm. A muffled scream escaped from the panties in his mouth. She took the knife and ran it along his left temple and down to his ear lobe. She positioned her thumb over his ear and with a slow stroke the lower tip of his ear fell to the floor.
“I know you think I'm a fucking idiot, senator. But you're the one that has allowed yourself to be held captive to my whims.”
She stood up, gazing down at the writhing body of the senator at her feet. With her left heel she pinned his head down so he couldn't squirm around in pain, and with her right heel she gave him a swift kick in between the eyes. His body went limp, and the blood continued to stream from his wounds.
November 13th, 3:13 am
“Are you shitting me?”
“Look – I've got to leave town. I'm headed down to Kentucky, I've got people there with a farm outside of Lexington. Nobody knows about it. They won't be able to find me.”
“You shouldn't be telling me this shit,” the woman reclining on the couch relit the spliff that dangled from her lips. “They probably know you're here – God. Fucking. Damn it.”
“No, they won't find him until the morning. I made sure I wasn't being tailed, and I'm already aware of every surveillance camera within ten blocks of here. Nobody will know I came here. I just wanted you to know, since –.”
“Right, since you love me? You know you've got some nerve coming around here at this hour. You're lucky I couldn't sleep tonight.”
This lightened the burden that was spread heavy and thick across Lamare's face. She ran her fingers down the center of her nude body and reached for the spliff.
“If we don't see each other again, will you remember me as I am now?”
The soft light from an oil lamp flickered on Lamare's pale breasts. Her red hair fell down the sides of her face, framing her green cat-like eyes. Smoke escaped from her nostrils and spiraled slowly to the ceiling. She rested her hand on her right thigh, posing with her ass towards the woman on the couch.
“How could I ever forget?”
fin
Stay tuned for the next story in the series, Lamare Tapes: Mr. Abbasi
About AJ Balkin: AJ Balkin is a cat lover, dreamer, political satirist, novelist and short story writer. He is currently working on a trilogy that tells the story of a young girl's adventure with her cat and dog as she travels through time and space and attempts to save a world that is in great peril. Every animal lover will enjoy the story as it explores cutting edge concepts in psychology, physics, biology and anthropology as they relate to humanity's relationship to cats and dogs.
Follow my research and updates on my writing online here:
http://ajbalkin.wordpress.com